I am Malala: The Story of the Girl Who Stood Up for Education and was Shot by the Taliban

‘Maulana, you have driven me to the wall!’ my father said. ‘Who are you? You are crazy! You
need to go to a doctor. You think I enter the school and take my clothes off? When you see a boy and a
girl you see a scandal. They are schoolchildren. I think you should go and see Dr Haider Ali!’
Dr Haider Ali was a well-known psychiatrist in our area, so to say, ‘Shall we take you to Dr
Haider Ali?’ meant ‘Are you mad?’
The mufti went quiet. He took off his turban and put it in my father’s lap. For us a turban is a public
symbol of chivalry and Pashtunness, and for a man to lose his turban is considered a great humili–
ation. But then he started up again. ‘I never said those things to your clerk. He is lying.’

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My father had had enough. ‘You have no business here,’ he shouted. ‘Go away!’
The mufti had failed to close our school but his interference was an indication of how our country
was changing. My father was worried. He and his fellow activists were holding endless meetings.
These were no longer just about stopping people cutting down trees but were also about education
and democracy.
In 2004, after resisting pressure from Washington for more than two and a half years, General
Musharraf sent the army into the Federally Administered Tribal Areas (FATA), seven agencies that
lie along the border with Afghanistan, where the government had little control. The Americans
claimed that al-Qaeda militants who had fled from Afghanistan during the US bombing were using the
areas as a safe haven, taking advantage of our Pashtun hospitality. From there they were running
training camps and launching raids across the border on NATO troops. For us in Swat this was very
close to home. One of the agencies, Bajaur, is next to Swat. The people who live in the FATA are all
from Pashtun tribes like us Yousafzai, and live on both sides of the border with Afghanistan.
The tribal agencies were created in British times as a buffer zone between Afghanistan and what
was then India, and they are still run in the same way, administered by tribal chiefs or elders known
as maliks. Unfortunately, the maliks make little difference. In truth the tribal areas are not governed at
all. They are forgotten places of harsh rocky valleys where people scrape by on smuggling. (The
average annual income is just $250 – half the Pakistani average.) They have very few hospitals and
schools, particularly for girls, and political parties were not allowed there until recently. Hardly any
women from these areas can read. The people are renowned for their fierceness and independence, as
you can see if you read any of the old British accounts.
Our army had never before gone into the FATA. Instead they had maintained indirect control in the
same way the British had, relying on the Pashtun-recruited Frontier Corps rather than regular soldiers.
Sending in the regular army was a tough decision. Not only did our army and ISI have long links with
some of the militants, but it also meant our troops would be fighting their own Pashtun brothers. The
first tribal area that the army entered was South Waziristan, in March 2004. Predictably the local
people saw it as an attack on their way of life. All the men there carry weapons and hundreds of
soldiers were killed when the locals revolted.
The army was in shock. Some men refused to fight, not wishing to battle their own people. They
retreated after just twelve days and reached what they called a ‘negotiated peace settlement’ with
local militant leaders like Nek Mohammad. This involved the army bribing them to halt all attacks
and keep out foreign fighters. The militants simply used the cash to buy more weapons and resumed
their activities. A few months later came the first attack on Pakistan by a US drone.
On 17 June 2004 an unmanned Predator dropped a Hellfire missile on Nek Mohammad in South
Waziristan apparently while he was giving an interview by satellite phone. He and the men around
him were killed instantly. Local people had no idea what it was – back then we did not know that the
Americans could do such a thing. Whatever you thought about Nek Mohammad, we were not at war
with the Americans and were shocked that they would launch attacks from the sky on our soil. Across
the tribal areas people were angry and many joined militant groups or formed lashkars, local militias.
Then there were more attacks. The Americans said that bin Laden’s deputy Ayman al-Zawahiri was
hiding in Bajaur and had taken a wife there. In January 2006 a drone supposedly targeting him landed
on a village called Damadola, destroying three houses and killing eighteen people. The Americans
said he had been tipped off and escaped. That same year, on 30 October, another US Predator hit a

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madrasa on a hill near the main town of Khar, killing eighty-two people, many of them young boys.
The Americans said it was the al-Qaeda training camp which had featured in the group’s videos and
that the hill was riddled with tunnels and gun emplacements. Within a few hours of the attack, an
influential local cleric called Faqir Mohammad, who had run the madrasa, announced that the deaths
would be avenged by suicide bombings against Pakistani soldiers.
My father and his friends were worried and called together local elders and leaders for a peace
conference. It was a bitterly cold night in January but 150 people gathered.
‘It’s coming here,’ my father warned. ‘The fire is reaching the valley. Let’s put out the flames of
militancy before they reach here.’
But no one would listen. Some people even laughed, including a local political leader sitting in the
front row.
‘Mr Khan,’ my father said to him, ‘you know what happened to the people of Afghanistan. They are
now refugees and they’re living with us. The same is happening with Bajaur. The same will happen to
us, mark my words, and we will have no shelter, no place to migrate to.’
But the expression on the man’s face was mocking. ‘Look at this man,’ he seemed to be saying of
my father. ‘I am a khan. Who would dare kick me out of this area?’
My father came home frustrated. ‘I have a school, but I am neither a khan nor a political leader. I
have no platform,’ he said. ‘I am only one small man.’

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8
The Autumn of the Earthquake
O
NE FINE OCTOBER
day when I was still in primary school our desks started to tremble and shake.
Our classes were still mixed at that age, and all the boys and girls yelled, ‘Earthquake!’ We ran
outside as we had been taught to do. All the children gathered around our teachers as chicks swarm to
a mother hen.
Swat lies on a geological fault line and we often had earthquakes, but this felt different. All the
buildings around us seemed to be shaking and the rumbling didn’t stop. Most of us were crying and
our teachers were praying. Miss Rubi, one of my favourite teachers, told us to stop crying and to stay
calm; it would soon be over.
Once the shaking had stopped we were all sent home. We found our mother sitting in a chair
holding the Quran, reciting verses over and over. Whenever there is trouble people pray a lot. She
was relieved to see us and hugged us, tears streaming down her face. But the aftershocks kept coming
all afternoon so we remained very scared.
We had moved again – we would move seven times by the time I was thirteen – and were living in
an apartment building. It was high for Mingora, two storeys with a big water tank on the roof. My
mother was terrified it would collapse on top of us so we kept going outside. My father did not get
home till late that evening as he had been busy checking all the other school buildings.
When nightfall came, there were still tremors and my mother was in a state of panic. Every time we
felt a tremor we thought it was the Day of Judgement. ‘We will be buried in our beds!’ she cried. She
insisted we leave, but my father was exhausted and we Muslims believe our fate is written by God.
So he put me and my brothers Khushal and Atal, then just a baby, to bed.
‘Go wherever you want,’ he told my mother and cousin. ‘I am staying here. If you believe in God
you will stay here.’ I think when there is a great disaster or our lives are in danger we remember our
sins and wonder how we will meet God and whether we will be forgiven. But God has also given us
the power to forget, so that when the tragedy is over we carry on as normal. I trusted in my father’s
faith, but I also shared my mother’s very real concerns.
That earthquake of 8 October 2005 turned out to be one of the worst in history. It was 7.6 on the
Richter Scale and was felt as far away as Kabul and Delhi. Our town of Mingora was largely spared
– just a few buildings collapsed – but neighbouring Kashmir and the northern areas of Pakistan were
devastated. Even in Islamabad buildings collapsed.
It took a while for us to realise how bad it was. When the TV news began to show the devastation
we saw that entire villages had been turned to dust. Landslides blocked access to the worst affected
parts and all the phones and power lines were down. The earthquake had affected 30,000 square
kilometres, an area as big as the American state of Connecticut. The numbers were unbelievable.
More than 73,000 people had been killed and 128,000 injured, many of them permanently disabled.
Around three and a half million people had lost their homes. Roads, bridges, water and power had all
gone. Places we had visited like Balakot were almost completely destroyed. Many of those killed
were children who like me had been at school that morning. Some 6,400 schools were turned to
rubble and 18,000 children lost their lives.

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We remembered how scared we had been that morning and started raising money at school.
Everyone brought what they could. My father went to everybody he knew, asking for donations of
food, clothing and money, and I helped my mother collect blankets. My father raised money from the
Swat Association of Private Schools and the Global Peace Council to add to what we had collected
at school. The total came to more than one million rupees. A publishing company in Lahore which
supplied our schoolbooks sent five trucks of food and other essentials.
We were terribly worried about our family in Shangla, jammed between those narrow mountains.
Finally we got news from a cousin. In my father’s small village eight people had been killed and
many homes destroyed. One of them was the house of the local cleric, Maulana Khadim, which fell
down crushing his four beautiful daughters. I wanted to go to Shangla with my father and the trucks but
he told me it would be too dangerous.
When he returned a few days later he was ashen. He told us that the last part of the journey had
been very difficult. Much of the road had collapsed into the river and large boulders had fallen and
blocked the way. Our family and friends said they had thought it was the end of the world. They
described the roar of rocks sliding down hills and everyone running out of their houses reciting the
Quran, the screams as roofs crashed down and the howls of the buffaloes and goats. As the tremors
continued they had spent the entire day outdoors and then the night too, huddling together for warmth,
even though it was bitterly cold in the mountains.
To start with the only rescue workers who came were a few from a locally based foreign aid
agency and volunteers from the Tehrike-Nifaz-e-Sharia-e-Mohammadi (TNSM) or Movement for the
Enforcement of Islamic Law, the group founded by Sufi Mohammad that had sent men to fight in
Afghanistan. Sufi Mohammad had been in jail since 2002 when Musharraf arrested a number of
militant leaders after American pressure, but his organisation still continued and was being run by his
son-in-law Maulana Fazlullah. It was hard for the authorities to reach places like Shangla because
most of the roads and bridges had gone and local government had been wiped out throughout the
region. We saw an official from the United Nations say on television that it was the ‘worst logistical
nightmare that the UN had ever faced’.
General Musharraf called it a ‘test of the nation’ and announced that the army had set up Operation
Lifeline – our army likes giving their operations names. There were lots of pictures on the news of
army helicopters laden with supplies and tents, but in many of the small valleys the helicopters could
not land and the aid packages they dropped often rolled down slopes into rivers. In some places,
when the helicopters flew in the locals all rushed underneath them, which meant they could not drop
supplies safely.
But some aid did get in. The Americans were quick as they had thousands of troops and hundreds
of helicopters in Afghanistan so could easily fly in supplies and show they were helping us in our
hour of need, though some crews covered the American markings on their helicopters, fearing attack.
For many in the remote areas it was the first time they had seen a foreigner.
Most of the volunteers came from Islamic charities or organisations but some of these were fronts
for militant groups. The most visible of all was Jamaat-ul-Dawa (JuD), the welfare wing of Lashkare-
Taiba. LeT had close links to the ISI and was set up to liberate Kashmir, which we believe should be
part of Pakistan not India as its population is mostly Muslim. The leader of LeT is a fiery professor
from Lahore called Hafiz Saeed, who is often on television calling on people to attack India. When
the earthquake happened and our government did little to help, JuD set up relief camps patrolled by

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men with Kalashnikovs and walkie-talkies. Everyone knew these men belonged to LeT, and soon their
black and white banners with crossed swords were flying everywhere in the mountains and valleys.
In the town of Muzaffarabad in Azad Kashmir the JuD even set up a large field hospital with X-ray
machines, an operating theatre, a well-stocked pharmacy and a dental department. Doctors and
surgeons offered their services along with thousands of young volunteers.
Earthquake victims praised the activists who had trudged up and down mountains and through
shattered valleys carrying medical help to remote regions no one else had bothered with. They helped
clear and rebuild destroyed villages as well as leading prayers and burying bodies. Even today, when
most of the foreign aid agencies have gone, shattered buildings still line the roadside and people are
still waiting for compensation from the government to build new houses, the JuD banners and helpers
are still present. My cousin who was studying in the UK said they raised lots of money from
Pakistanis living there. People later said that some of this money had been diverted to finance a plot
to bomb planes travelling from Britain to the US.
With such a large number of people killed, there were many children orphaned – 11,000 of them. In
our culture orphans are usually taken in by the extended family, but the earthquake was so bad that
entire families had been wiped out or lost everything so were in no position to take in children. The
government promised they would all be looked after by the state, but that felt as empty as most
government promises. My father heard that many of the boys were taken in by the JuD and housed in
their madrasas. In Pakistan, madrasas are a kind of welfare system as they give free food and lodging,
but their teaching does not follow a normal curriculum. The boys learn the Quran by heart, rocking
back and forth as they recite. They learn that there is no such thing as science or literature, that
dinosaurs never existed and that man never went to the moon.
The whole nation was in shock for a long time after the earthquake. Already so unlucky with our
politicians and military dictators, now, on top of everything else, we had to deal with a natural
disaster. Mullahs from the TNSM preached that the earthquake was a warning from God. If we did
not mend our ways and introduce shariat or Islamic law, they shouted in their thundering voices,
more severe punishment would come.

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